


Take Your Punishment

by Tsundere_Icecream



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 20:58:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14577519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsundere_Icecream/pseuds/Tsundere_Icecream





	Take Your Punishment

Sherlock knows when he's doing wrong. He can sense it, if nothing else, through the rising anger of his husband. Sometimes Sherlock can practically smell the animal fury seeping through the man's sweat. The worst part is he knows what it means. There are always unexpected variables with John's reactions, the exact timing, the degree of severity, the number of multiple 

If he keeps being Sherlock it _will_ happen.

So it really comes as no surprise when seeing John snarling, teeth bared, nostrils flaring wide, after he'd just chased Sherlock down, which was right after Sherlock had run off looking for a suspect, Sherlock knows he shouldn't continue on. After all, the suspect is now lost. Sherlock thinks he knows where he's going. He could just as easily text Lestrade and suddenly feels 

 

 

 

Sherlock put it out of his mind for three cases, at least one crafted by Moriarty and the other two just as intriguing, despite their lack of a consulting criminal behind them. The hours were demanding and John was, true to form, following him as much as he could. The end of the whole thing, though, was taxing and Sherlock was tired, irritable, and not in the mood for any human contact, John’s included.

The thoughts came back, nagging in his mind, when he noticed that John had had started to act odd and which Sherlock suspected was something incredibly dull like a cold, or his need to ‘work’ and go elsewhere. That Mary character probably wasn’t helping, probably was flirting with him too. It only served to make him ignore the nagging thoughts in favor of the easier feelings of jealousy and annoyance.  
  
“It’ll be fine,” John said when Sherlock’s mood caused him to say something incredibly rude, and complain about not having another case. “I mean,” he continued, moving near Sherlock, “things looked up last time it got boring, and you weren’t at all bored after that.”  
  
Sherlock glared at John, causing him to flinch. “Last I recall,” Sherlock said, tone acidic, “that particular boredom ended up with you in a jacket full of explosives.”  
  
“Yes, but if everything had stayed fine,” John replied slowly, “you’d be bored.”  
  
“THAT,” Sherlock said, sitting up suddenly, his eyes on John and his anger bubbling, “is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
John swallowed, looking away after a moment and muttering, “I’m sorry” before standing up, moving over to the kitchen, possibly to make a cuppa. Sherlock hated that John didn’t worry when he was in danger. He hated that John valued his own life far less then Sherlock valued it. He might have hated boredom because his brain rotted, but when it ended and he was satisfied, John might have to hope that he wasn’t caught for shooting someone, or wasn’t kidnapped, or shot at, or used as bait, or threatened, or—  
  
John put the cup of tea down, none for him ( _why wasn’t he taking care of himself? Didn’t he know that Sherlock’s body was just an appendix?_ ), but staying silent, as if attempting to gauge what he could say, before finally speaking.

“It didn’t matter…it really didn’t, because you--.”  
  
John’s sentence stops midway through, the sound of the hard slap Sherlock delivers to him recoiling through the small apartment. Sherlock watches in horror and fascination as John’s head snaps to one side so hard that, for a moment, Sherlock thought he might have actually broken his neck. Anger at himself, fear for what John will do, builds up briefly as his mind tries to figure out why he’d done that. He’d heard that a slap would stop something from spouting nonsense and some damned American show had proven it to where Sherlock agreed with it.  
  
John was blathering, blathering about how unimportant he was. Sherlock hoped the slap would wake him up, and it seemed to, John blinking slowly as he watched Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock waited, impatiently, for John to leave, to yell at him, to demand to know what was going on.

He didn’t.   
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, confused but also relieved he didn’t, a part of his brain that nagged him about tiny things now nagging him about something else, that wasn’t right, that John’s look and stance and whole body was reacting wrong. At the same time, that John was still here, still sitting in front of him, simply looking at him in surprise and not with anger, disgust, or anything else, worked to silence that part as well.  
  
“You’re talking nonsense,” Sherlock said simply, refusing to acknowledge it if John wouldn’t, “and I’m not thirsty.”  
  
John nods slowly, reaching out to take the cup away. Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair, his brain moving from angry at boredom to reminding Sherlock of how wonderful John was. Did he really wish to mess this up? To lose this wonderful, gorgeous,  _heroic_  person who was the only thing that could get him to interact with people on any scale that didn’t instantly annoy them?  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, trying to find the right words, “I didn’t mean to do that. I really didn’t. I…being reminded about Moriarty, about what he did,”  _that he touched you, threatened you, calls you my dog_  “is not something I want, unless we’re chasing him.”  _give me something to focus on, to know why I go after him, why I want him drawn and quartered, why I need to put him in some dark hole in the ground while he’s still alive._  “It’s not what I want to relieve this boredom. Any case, as long as it’s interesting, is what drives me. But not the reminder of what I have when I don’t.”  
  
John offers a small smile, understanding as he says, "I understand. I'm sorry."  
  
Sherlock lay back down on the couch, glad for the talk, even with the small seeds of doubt in his mind. "You didn't know. You do now. Never mind it." He turns over, missing John's look, and began hoping for a good, complicated and  _fun_  murder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John is gentle this time, as far as punishments go, and not at like when he  
Sherlock was…gentle, as far as punishments went, and not at all the same as any of his others. John had learned early on that Sherlock enjoyed watching his reaction to various touches, but right now he was on his back, whole body shuddering as Sherlock pushed into him, the first time they’d actually had this type of sex. Sherlock had taken a good amount of time preparing him, slowly pushing in one then another finger as he stretched him.

John’s mind focuses back on the feel of Sherlock moving into him. He’d been forbidden to think about his other boyfriends or girlfriends, and the once he had, Sherlock had stopped preparing him, instead teasing him with kisses and touches along his upper body or his thighs, holding John still as he teased him before going back to preparing him. He’d told John to not touch himself, and to try to not touch Sherlock unless he had to. John’s been good, taken his punishment, but this strange way of doing things – not even holding him down or tying him up, instead telling him to not do it, and then going off Sherlock’s deductions and observations of John as he slowly pushes in, watching John and slowing or stopping whenever he thought or compared Sherlock to the others, when he doubted, when—

He felt Sherlock fully in, breathing quickly at the returning sensation of being filled that slowly, of being filled to the point of wanting nothing more than to thrust back—

Sherlock bit lightly against John’s shoulder, causing him to moan. “You’re thinking too much again,” he says, sounding almost breathless himself, shifting until John gasps and pushes back in the hopes of getting that sensation again. He could feel Sherlock’s smirk against his shoulder before his boyfriend begins to move again, thrusting against the spot and causing John to almost let out a yell.

The other part was to stay quiet. John was unluckily quite vocal during sex, and this was proving harder than not thinking about his other—

Another, harder thrust and one of Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him up and thrusting again, the sensations causing him to have to bite back a desperate moan.

“Stop thinking about anything else but me, Sherlock. Just me.”

 

His pace turned brutal then. Completely animalistic, beyond sanity.

The large muscles of his biceps popping as he ruthlessly practically sawing inside Sherlock's too small body. Powerfully  holding himself and Sherlock's waist up as he fucks harder, faster, faster and deeper and eeeper and deeper and Sherlock can't even scream any longer, the breath punch- 

 

 

John nods, panting as Sherlock thrust up again, a little harder but still hitting his prostate, still almost pulling a sound out of him that instead came out like a strangled half-moan. He wasn’t sure how he looked, held half-up against Sherlock as he started to push into him at a slow rhythm, the touch from each thrust starting to bring John closer to orgasm, his cock hard and straining, dripping pre-cum as he tried to quell the need to reach down and stroke it, hands and arms trying to find a place to grab, resulting in him bending a bit and putting a death-grip on the sheets to hold. Sherlock’s punishment was mostly seeing if he could do as Sherlock told him, and John wasn’t about to fail at that.

Sherlock pulls John up until he was sitting on his lap, moving shallowly in him but still brushing his prostate at every thrust, and each one powerful enough to set off sparks behind John’s eyes. He felt one of Sherlock’s hands reach to grab one of his own, bringing it over to grasp John’s weeping cock. “Now,” his voice was rough, “touch yourself for me, John.”

John’s head falls back against Sherlock’s shoulder as he tries to match Sherlock’s thrusts, the hand holding his guiding him as the other wrapped around his chest, pulling him close.

“You’re mine now, John,” Sherlock says as John felt himself get closer, “remember that.”

John couldn’t hold in the yell as he came, trying to muffle it against Sherlock’s shoulder as he does, feeling Sherlock manage one more stroke before he filled John up.

John feels like he might have to fall asleep and just stay like that for a week. It was the best and oddest punishment he’d gotten, but it also didn’t feel like he was going to have to make excuses either.

Sherlock, who was normally lazy in getting food or drinks or anything else, was compulsively touching John during or after sex, and seemed to enjoy cleaning him off. He does so easily before sitting up, starting to move and look at something on his phone. He pauses to cover John up in their now-shared bed, reaching over to run a hand through John’s still-sweaty hair. “You’re comparing me again.”

“s’ry…” John manages, half asleep.

“I expected it,” he puts the phone away, offering a smile to John, “Most people always compared their current lovers to their former, but you did get lost in the current moment, so I didn’t see it as often as I think I would have.” He settles next to John, moving to wrap his arms around him, “You did well. Beautifully so.”

John manages a happy sound before he snuggles closer to Sherlock, falling asleep listening to his heartbeat.


End file.
